


disconnected.

by hyenireu



Category: overwatch
Genre: F/F, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 12:16:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17324837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hyenireu/pseuds/hyenireu
Summary: a music school au.Not particularly connected chapters. Same world, different times.slowburn.





	1. jokes.

1.

The troubled Swiss tapped her fingers over a worn desk, spreading them out as she imagined her hand on a piano. Major, Minor... Now, would that make it a perfect, then..? She sighed, lolling her head back onto the arch of her chair. She wasn’t the best at intervals, she’d agree. In fact, she wasn’t the best at music at all. Dejectedly, she started scribbling an answer onto a blank spot in the paper, caring less if it was correct or not. Being done with another excruciatingly boring mock test sheet, she didn’t pay any heed to the sound of the dorm room door opening softly.

“Augmented...,” she murmured to herself, making a final check before moving onto the next paper in her pitiful heap of assignments. She picked the paper up again, staring hard at it as she was helplessly unable to read her own writing, trying to figure out what in the world she’d just written down. 

Amelie pulled her shoes off gently, setting them aside. She was also very particular about being gentle- nearly every piece she played, she’d preferred to be themed quietly and carefully. She walked into the room, arms crossed as her feet made no sound, socks padding against matted floor. The french woman simply glanced down, beyond her roommate’s splayed blonde hair and onto the paper in her hands.

...

“That’s a Major,” Amelie stated blatantly, and it made Angela’s skin crawl. How had she not noticed her coming in? Oh no, wait, she never noticed Amelie coming in. She was much too lost in her own thoughts most the time. The Swiss grunts and strikes a harsh line through her old answer and writing down the new one. 

“You could’ve greeted me first,” Angela said lightly after she’d collected her nerves. Amelie was now sitting by the windowsill, watching the evening sky drip into the earth. 

“And what would I have benefitted from that?” Her voice is deep and silky, and it makes Angela stutter in retort. She couldn’t come up with an answer for that. 

“I-I don’t know! My awareness-?” The blonde sputters pathetically. This elicits a hoarse laugh from Amelie, something that surprises Angela. It wasn’t usual of her to laugh- especially this casually. Perhaps the advantages of being her roommate meant being able to see another side of her- even if she was often pestered about it. 

“Oh, Angela,” The woman smiles, smoothing out her skirt. “Were you always this funny?”

“You mean: was I always so good at making a fool out of myself?” Angela grumbles, going back to her papers as she moves the previous sheet aside. She glances back as Amelie raises an eyebrow.

“The answer is NO.”


	2. close.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> angela reacts when amélie gets a little too close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm.

2.

Angela had her hair let down, leaning tiredly on a puffy red pillow on her bed. She was staring at another piece of music she had handed to her by her tutor. She was chewing anxiously at a pencil; something she herself would always chastise Amelie for. 

“My, my, Angela Ziegler, the hypocrite,” Amelie sneered, watching her as she ate whatever food she’d packed from the dining hall. Angela glared at her, taking the pencil out of her mouth. 

“Shut it, Lacroix.” The blonde retorted mockingly. The reason for using her last name was simply because, well; Amélie was a prodigy- everybody knew that. She was, by record, the youngest student admitted at the school. And this tease came from the fact that her family was rich in the history of music and dance; so even if she was horrible at music, she’d end up here anyway. Amelie simply rolls her eyes, but the comeback was enough to wipe the smirk of her face.

It’s peaceful, for a while. Amelie makes nearly no sound as she eats, being delicate as always, and the silence is only interrupted by Angela roughly writing down notes and answers. This was usually how their weekends would go; nearly no conversation- maybe some annoyed yelling because the other took the someone’s things on accident- and otherwise, the absence of another’s presence.

“How many types of cadences are there, again?” Angela suddenly pipes up, pencil edged close to her lips, and her teeth are gnawing in thought. The question is random, and idiotic, is what Amelie would say. Lacroix finishes whatever is left on her plate and wipes her mouth daintily, turning towards Angela, and making her way towards the edge of her roommate’s bed.

“Please, Ziegler. You learnt this in Grade 5,” Amelie traced the frame of the bed with her fingers. Angela is frozen; she doesn’t know what to do with Amelie so near. She didn’t particularly dislike it, but it would always surprise her when Amelie’s got close like this- she’d tried being, well, ‘friendly’ with Amelie at first, but it didn’t particularly work. Now, there was absolutely a relationship between them, but it was built up of mockery, teasing, and occasional chivalry. 

“Amelie,” The Swiss can only choke out, watching precariously as Amelie crawls onto her bed, eyeing her. She swears she can see a smirk tug at Amelie’s lips as she crawls closer yet, now so close to Angela that she could smell her perfume. 

“Amelie,” Angela repeats, now louder, but less composed. frantic. Amelie pays no mind- Angela didn’t expect her to. Amelie was definite, she wouldn’t stop simply because Angela asked her to.

“Now, Angela,” comes a soft taunt, but Angela can hear it clearly as Amelie is so close to her it was terribly unnerving.

“un.”

“deux.”

“trois.”

“quatre.”

“cinq.”

Angela doesn’t respond: she’s powerless to do so. Slowly, she nods; she understands easily, having studied the four languages that her nation commonly speaks. Amelie smiles, and it feels oddly lukewarm of her to. Something smug yet, satisfied with her understanding.

“Perfect authentic cadence, imperfect authentic cadence, half cadence, deceptive cadence, and plagal cadence,” Amelie simply explains, as if she weren’t so close to the roommate that she could choke her. Angela was stiff; she felt like she was being choked already. Warm, golden eyes searched her for a response. Angela stutters a word of understanding, and immediately, Amélie steps off of her bed, and lies down on her own, as if what happened never did. 

“Merci vielmal,” is the only thing Angela can say after that ordeal. And she swears she can see Amélie smile.


End file.
